I am writing this blog from the top of a mountain, an even higher mountain than I used to live on. In front of me there are rolling green hills dotted with a small town in a valley. If I look up , the stars select multiple partners, weaving themselves  into beautiful pictures, telling stories of religion and hunters. To my right there is a child in red pants throwing rocks down the mountain, as his parents wag their fingers in disapproval. To my left there are grayish-black rocks sticking out of the dirt like daggers or spikes.

As I sit here immersed in the beauty around me, I realize how much my journey in Brasil has meant to me. I just came from the kitchen helping  a fellow Bowdoin alum make homemade pizza on a whole grain crust, while simultaneously dancing to Bob Marley and sipping the finest red wine I have ever tasted.  It was these moments that I hoped travelling would bring me. Here I was in front of a fireplace, discussing race and politics in Brazil. Here I was comparing slavery in the United States and Brazil using music and dance to tell narratives, my former professor Judith Cassleberry would be so proud.

In India I felt as if people could benefit from reconstructing the urban landscape. I felt as if poverty kept different social classes from enjoying “green spaces,” within the city. Many of the middle classes left Delhi to experience beauty not considering Delhi a place of beauty, but a place to make a living. Many of the extremely marginalized benefited from this thought because they used these green spaces for living and natural resources like water. In Delhi I believed if there could be a way to let all Deliwalas take pride in a beautiful Delhi that more people could realize the hidden treasures in their cities, then maybe there could be a socially conscious effort to help the marginalized in Delhi have access to basic resources, and allow for safer spaces to recreate.

In South Africa, I felt as if the urban landscape was still tarnished by apartheid. That cities and natural endowments had been designed as far as way as possible from black South Africans in major cities. It was in the more rural areas that you can hear stories of more traditional use and pride in natural landscapes from black South Africans. I also found that this was a place where eco-tourism took its ugly turn. At places like Kruger National Park, you could see the “Venda people” perform traditional dances and live traditional lives. When going to the place where the Venda people live you can see that the days of grass huts, if ever there, were long behind them, and that they practiced their culture in new ways. Beauty and race went hand in hand in South Africa, the most exclusive were also the most white. Nature in South Africa highlighted the larger issues of implicit segregation and explicit inequality in South Africa.

Brazil on the other hand confused me. Questions of race here are tangled in a history of mixing of cultures and language. There is a shared history of independence that prides all Brazilians. There is a real appreciation of the Afro-Brazilian impact on culture-especially in dance and food. Just from observation, it seemed like Brazil was beyond race. I am in the south of Brazil, so my experiences with Afro-Brazilians are extremely limited. Everyone that I came across in Belo Horizonte promised me that no one cares about race that racism is mostly in the North. It seemed to be true, I mean what I observed was a complete and utterly uncomfortable feeling around poverty, not necessarily around non-white races.  Still others told me that that the racism was in the South and shared stories about how there are, minus a few exceptions, Afro-Brazilians in office. I can attest that there are very few Afro-Brazilians on television; I have yet to see any advertisements that have Afro-Brazilian models. While skin color is not obsessed about in Brazil like in India, there are after all plenty of brown people on the covers of magazines, race matters here.

I will say now that my trip to Brazil has been amazing. I have met people who have quickly adopted me into their friend circles and families. I also must admit that I have around many Brazilians who are in doctorate programs, who have travelled around the world, and who have probably taken into account that I am American and an English only speaker. I am one of two darker people in my friend group.  Yet, I know that my friends care about me as I do them. Maybe my happiness has kept me from being able to define race in Brazil, but it has not fooled me. I think that my journey is too short to be able to define race, so I must instead focus on social class.  The social hierarchies in Belo Horizonte are acute and at times painful. In South Africa people say keep your windows rolled up when you drive. Here I watch good friends of mine roll up their windows and lock their doors whenever they see a child or barefoot adult approaching, and then as soon as the “poor” person passes, he unlocks the doors and rolls down the windows. He can literally do this process twenty times on longer trips. Blindness and apathy. I have seen wealthier people detach themselves from social conditions of others and pretend that they do not exist. I have seen children who miss school days because the electricity in the school was shut off. I have seen children with little hope turn to violent games to give them community in a place that reeks of inequality, lack of resources, and crime. I fell in love with my kiddies not because of pity, but because before I knew anything about them they showed me so much love and kindness. These same children are eager for me to teach them English and play games with me. They are eager to teach me Portuguese so that we can share stories. They help me with my capoeira angola and futball skills. Before knowing them as marginalized groups, I knew them as children who could have easily been my nieces and nephews. So learning about them over these last couple of weeks has been both disheartening and yet wonderful.

On Friday we had a group meeting on gang violence among the children as young as nine years old. I was shocked to hear that boys and girls, some who I have taught personally and grown very fond of have turned to chasing people down throwing rocks at them. It was a hard day for all of the staff at Casa does Jardim, my base in Brazil. Some of the culprits started crying, and I was unsure if it was out of remorse or out getting caught. I did not know how to share my own concerns and experience with violence pervading my community and schools with the small amount of Portuguese I have.  I did not even know if they would care, because the poverty I witness is ten times more extreme than what I faced in the United States. Still I shared my story, and hoped that one person would listen.  It made me think of all the things that kept these children from thinking about so many other things. Here I am sitting on top of this mountain overlooking a spectacular view of trees and exclusive houses, writing about how nature consoles me, and these children who also live among trees and on top mountains, and yet,  do not have the time to sit and write down about how it makes them feel. Some of them live in abusive households, some of them are scrounging for food, and other others are running around throwing rocks at people-expressing their frustration with their conditions in very negative ways.  So  here in Jardim Canada, I would not suggest equal access to beautiful places or for people to re-think about beauty. I would actually suggest a beginning of more recreational uses of the outdoors that is abundant in Brazil. I would suggest more hiking and sleeping outdoors under the stars, more dialogue. For me being outside isn’t just about the activity, it is about being free to be honest with myself and others, it is about being free to release my frustration, knowing that I will be consoled and helped.  I want these children to have the same things. I would say that the “natural landscapes” that surround there town can be used as retreats to talk about solutions to problems, to encourage collectivism and high self-esteem.

There are days here when I just want to run away an hide. Not because of any personal challenge or tragedy, but because I have so much love for all of the children I interact with, and sometimes when I say reach for the stars, i doubt that it will help. At the end of the day, who will pay for them to get the new school they so desperately need. Who will pay for them to go to college or receive job training, or to see the world.

I know that this year abroad was supposed to be living out a passion, and finding myself in ways impossible to do within the limits of a “home.” Yet, after tn months out of the US, I realize that I was never lost. I always had the passion, but not the courage. The heart, but not the patience. Working in Brazil has ignited a life in me that I thought died years ago. I realized how much my privilege impacted my relationships with people all over the world and in my current situation. That I now have a responsibility to take what I learned and make sure that more people can learn it. I know I cannot  sponsor trips around the world, but I can encourage more people to find multiple pathways to success, as I have this year. I can re-build relationships that I have let burn, because I gave up on people, and try again. Because I have learned that you can never give up. I show other people how to fight for their dreams, because I have learned that every dream is worth fighting for.

I still have two more countries to travel to, but everyday I see growth in myself. I see myself becoming the person I want to be, a person I can be proud of. I hope that no matter where you are in the world when you read this, that you have the opportunity to be the person you are proud of too. It is a freeing experience.

Here is wishing you all love and kindness!

From the woman on the mountain,

Teona

The diva in me came out. While hiking trail at Victoria Falls, I realized that this was a get soaked activity. I was not prepared and stomped off in the other direction.

“To find a home wherever we travel, is the best home to build afterall.”- Anonymous.

Family Vacation

The Rio of my dreams!

I don’t want to assume anything, but this could be the baboon that snatched my purse!

Because once you climbed those steps, you have to hit the pose at least once.

Famous Lapa Steps.

Don’t Mess with Texas…foreign policy at Lapa Steps

 

Skyline

The Real Windy City!

Marilyn Monroe

Descending Sugarloaf Mountains, Brazil.

Beach life

Views from a wine vineyard in Capetown.

Sightseeing in Belo

Ruler of Table Mountain

Just catching some rays

Rulers of Lionshead

Memory: Hiking up the gruelling Lion’s Head to get the best view of the city at sunset. While the climb out made me regret my decision to spend my friend’s last night in Cape Town, once we summited all my tiredness and regret faded. On one end we saw Table Mountain cascading around the city in its mountainous glory. The other end revealed the Atlantic Ocean flirting with the beach. At one moment coming close to kiss the sand and then fleeting back to the depths of the ocean. It was pure magic. Even though I noticed few people of color on the mountain I thought nothing of it. Within my first two days spent at the beach, I realized how racially segregated it really was.

The most exclusive and white parts of Cape Town were surrounded by the beach and Table Mountain. The nearest township was 40 kilometers away. It was clear that the beauties of Cape Town were not meant for everyone to consume, at least at all times.  How did this fact impact me, or even my South African who accompanied me? We were definitely uncomfortable. We definitely thought about the lasting effects of apartheid. We definitely considered whether we belonged on those white sandy beaches, or should we go somewhere else. We wondered in Cape Town was there a safe haven, a somewhere else? It definitely seemed unfair. Two points came out of our discussion of where were the black people around Cape Town’s most popular points, did the first non-apartheid regime go far enough in assuring that South Africa was really a rainbow nation? Frantz Fanon points out that the “national bourgeoisie, the regime which replaces the colonial regime is underdeveloped” and unprepared to rule a country. Further Fanon argues that it is this unpreparedness matched with the diversity of the “masses” that makes it hard to build a “nation.” I compared this with many of the black South Africans I encountered idea that Mandela did not go far enough, that the white South Africans never apologized for apartheid, yet here was this rainbow nation existing in imaginary racial harmony. This is not to say that there have not been strides in South Africa, but many wonder if those strides enough, when about 90 % of the country is black or “colored”, yet the majority of the country’s wealth is concentrated in the white (10%) of the population. Even though I am not South African, I found myself questioning the rainbow nation as well. I remembered how in these natural spaces I would make sure to project my American accent, to let people I was not one of “those” black people. I was not going to be the “one” who brought with me crime and destitution to their pretty little beach, I was “American.” How awkward it felt at first it felt to project one identity, but how effective it worked. Once it was clear I was American, the implicit hostility, or as some would call it the microcosm racism that I faced simmered down. I wondered what my black South African friend felt, and I felt guilty for dragging him to places where he would feel like he did not belong. I remembered when we were in the bookstore at the cash register waiting to pay for my new book, how this white woman ignored my existence busy with work, but as soon as I put the book directly in my bag (we had been rung by someone else and I thought instead of wasting plastic I would use my own tote) she aggressively stated were you helped? I was insulted. I thought now you acknowledge my existence when you think I am about to steal from your store. I told her yes I had, and she quickly apologized, and said she was just checking and embarrassingly looked away when I held her gaze. It was little things like that, which reminded me that no matter how American I was, I was still a person of color.

It was the beauty of nature that set me right. I forgot any race or any gender or any class or sexuality. I was free. It took my breath away I realized how insignificant and yet so significant I was. I was inspired. Instead of looking at nature in Cape Town as exclusive, I thought it just needed a dose of inclusivity. On the last day of holiday I was excited to see so many people of color at Camps Bay, enjoying their last day before work or school. It starts as something so small, I thought. As long as we keep coming, refusing to feel insignificant, our existence will be forced to be recognized. No one can say you are invisible if you keep blocking their lovely view from their rooftop of their 20 million dollar apartment with the image of your black skin dancing salsa in the waves.  I admit it was difficult seeing some of these natural sites on public transportation, but not impossible. We managed to see everything on the Cape Town top to do lists without ever having to hire a car. So what is nature in South Africa? It is money…it is privilege…it is history…but it is everyone’s who is willing to take it.

With Love,

Teona

Here I was in South Africa, Johannesburg and Cape Town, thinking that Africa would easier than India. After all, I was black and the country was 90% black I would blend in, and be at peace. No longer would my body become a sideshow attraction. But if it was invisibility I was searching for, she would soon be disappointed. There was no blending in for an American here. They heard it in my “good English.”  The gawked and stared. Some were kind enough to ask me about my story; others looked at me smugly as if my “good” English made me stuck up.  My blackness would not be an easy pass, if I wanted to belong here, I would have to earn people’s love and respect. Challenge accepted.

The friends and memories I made in Johannesburg will always be a part of me.  This poem is dedicated to the city that literally stole my heart:

Heart heavy, tears raining down my face.

Each step was like a blow to my heart.

Each step took me further from where I wanted to be.

We had a love hate relationship. Like any other couple.

We fought for days on in. There was times when I wanted to fly as far away from you as possible.

I did not want to spend my life consumed by your mysteries, your curves.

I did not want to be caught up in spells of culture and glamor.

Yet I reached out for you every time.

Hungry for you contradictory stories of oppression and then hope.

Enamoured by the way you tried to mask inequality, like a black eye on your sweet face.

I felt your pain. I understood why you could never reveal yourself to me.

I understood why secrets and distance kept you from loving me how you should have.

I carried my own burdens. Strapped to my back, never forgetting the times that I wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear from reality.

It was your pain that attracted me to you.

I thought we could relate.

I thought we could hold each other on the bad days and laugh with each other on the good days.

We did neither as much as I would have liked.

We fought mercilessly about what a city, a country should be like.

Enigmas were no longer attractive, they became a nuisance.

I just wanted you to show me something.

It was not until I left that realized you did.

It was not until I swore for the now fourth time, that I would come back and visit.

That I would see you soon.

That I realized you like so many other places gave me honesty.

You smiled as the lie came from lips, knowing I may never come back.

If I did it would be a long time coming.

The look you gave me before the plane took off, killed me.

You caught my lie.

You knew I had rehearsed this a thousand times before. To me they had turned into words.

You wanted them to be reality.

So as I said good-bye for the last time, I realized that I loved you for your honesty.

I loved that you loved me like you knew how and not how you should.

I loved that goodbyes became less painful, because you were so sure of the future.

I left heartbroken and you left content.

All the time I begged you to show me something and you secretly wanted the same from me.

For every tear drop that hit the stone cold ground, you took as honesty flowing from my unmoving lips.

We finally came to peace.

With Love,

Teona

Unfortunately, technical difficulties kept me away from my favorite thing about travelling, rambling about my observations.  For the record, technical difficulties include sitting on my laptop on my way from Thailand to Malaysia via bus.

Alas! Never fear, I have posts and pictures to share!

In my young Michael Jackson voice, “could it be a stayed away too long, did I lose your heart while I was gone….dadadadada I want you back!”

Please enjoy stories from South Africa in the following posts, and a story on Brazil.

As always peace and love!

Teona

I remember how my best friend and I always would say in high school that there was a song for everything. Of course two 16 year old girls were probably talking about the most insignificant things, but I can honestly say that at 22 I still find that music lyrics can convey the most random of feelings in your life. I have now spent 3 weeks in Penang, including a 4 day trip to Thailand, and I am finding myself re-immersed in a music culture. So my dearest readers, I have chosen one such song and applied it to my life in Penang. Hopefully the connection is clear, wish me luck!

“Tonight I want all of you tonight. Give me everything tonight. For all we know we might not get tomorrow. Let’s do it tonight.” Pitbull ft. Ne-Yo Give Me Everything.

I have heard this song here more times than I ever had back home, but for a song that the old me would have instantly ignored, it makes expressing myself surprisingly easy.

Imagine a group of friends, a three car caravan, a waterfall, and the moonlight. After a day trip to  the waterfall, we pulled over on the side of the road so some of our Muslim friends could pray. As some people prayed, my friend Mia and I laid on our backs and gazed at the stars. It had been a while since I felt comfortable to do such a minor thing. As we tried to identify stars, realizing that they have “Malaysian stars”, Give Me Everything came on the radio. Someone turned it up, and we all grabbed a partner and started dancing, in the moonlight, on the side of the road, as cars zoomed by us staring. I like to think that I have learned to be more aware and controlled of my body lately. So it was the most freeing thing to dance around with my friend Ahmed, serenading him off key to this song. It was a beautiful night of community, love, and dancing, some of my favorite things in this world. However, Ne-Yo is right in saying give me everything tonight..we might not get tomorrow. Something I quickly learned about my life and friends in Malaysia is that Penang is really a liminal space where individuals come and formulate strong communities on a temporary basis. What I am saying is that most people come here to go to school, with the plan of leaving Malaysian in either 2 mos or 6 years. So you never know if your friend and dance partner will be there tomorrow to spin you around, or hold you when you feel lonely. While at first this temporal nature of relationships was jarring, it taught me an extremely important lesson about love, community, passion, intimacy, trust, and friendship. All these ideas I had guarded, only opening myself up to a small few. I told myself that I am travelling by myself for a year. I will never be around one space for long, so why get attached. Why develop close relationships with people. Why trust anyone?  Malaysia, specifically my friends in Malaysia showed me that my ideas about what made a community, who gets trust and love, and when to reveal emotions was self-destructive and flat out wrong. Communities are fluid. Just because I am not at home, does not mean that I am no longer in my family. Likewise, just because I only have 3 1/2 weeks in Malaysia, does not mean that I cannot take the time to truly connect with people.

Our time together may be short, but the love we feel for each other transcends everything. I appreciated all the moments, I spent with people. The cuddling and affection. Talking about religion in at 4 am. Dancing and singing in and around the car. Eating from the same plate. Protecting each other. Even the most difficult personalities were loved and respected; which made me question my own relationships past and future with people. I believe that you cannot be friends with everybody, but just because a person is not your friend, does not mean that they do not deserve your love and compassion. Perhaps, this will be my hardest lesson to learn in life-loving your enemies. However, depending on the type of lifestyles one lives, can anyone really have enemies?  Maybe the person you do not like is just a “difficult” personality. Maybe you will not jump at the opportunity to hang out with them. Yet, if they are in need you can still be there. You can still give the shirt off your back to someone. I think as someone who comes from a larger family, albeit still in an individualistic country, that it has been both hard and easy to learn. Am I really willing to give my trust and love to a person I only met a week ago? What if they hurt me? Why should I share everything? I had to give over my doubts, and I realized that if you give everything, there is a greater chance that you get everything. If you love hard, you get that same love in return.

I know in my last post, I kind of celebrated not being as trusting, and I think it is always good to be on your toes, but I hope I never forget how to trust so quickly, and to love so hard again. I have been so blessed to be here and to be cared for by everyone. I laugh and talk loud, and smile every day. Even in the most difficult moments here, I know that anyone of my friends would be all to willing to hold me, wipe away my tears, help me work through my frustrations. So to me, learning how to love and trust again is more than worth it. While I am truly sad to leave yet another country, I am also excited to continue to grow and to learn. I hope to take both what I gained and from India and Malaysia to South Africa and beyond. I hope to continue to grow to be a better person than I was yesterday. So readers of mine, I hope you all remember to dedicate sometime to whatever community(ies) you identify yourself with. Enjoy the leftover turkey, I find that Thanksgiving turkey chilled, two slices of bread, cheese, and miracle whip are a magical combination.

Peace and Love all!

She felt bamboozled. She did not understand why, or more accurately she did not wish admit that she understood why. As she traveled through Delhi, making her observations, asking her friends innocently what did they think of nature around here, she began to collect certain truths that seemed so blasphemous, dangerous even. She fell into deep conflict with what she had  experienced in the US, and what her brain was seeing here. She continuously told herself, Teona nature is a social construction. 

Delhi’s nature was too real. Reality designed the trees, influenced the river, and created the hills and mountains. Parks were both places to relax and to sort trash. People lived by the river both out of convenience and because they could not afford to live anywhere else. Even if you did have a decent amount of funds,  Delhi’s nature was not a place that you frequented. There were too many other places to see, too many other things to think about. Maybe you went biking, maybe you planted trees around your house, maybe you had lunch in the park. Maybe all these things made you happy. Maybe nature was a place to socialize. Maybe you did not mind the smells or the garbage or the noise. Maybe it was still beautiful. Maybe she had to redefine her conceptions of beauty.

She was being too harsh she knew it. She needed to appreciate how honest Delhi was. It was helping her re-think concepts that she swore by. She sat outside what looked like park to finish Fountainhead. It was not exactly peaceful or even relaxing, but it was comfortable. She was invested as much in the book as she was in the space. It was perplexing. She had never experienced nature in this way before. There was shanty like houses, people hanging up laundry. It was  increasingly intoxicating. She ended up sharing her lunch a few times with the women construction workers, who chipped away at rocks in the park. They would play in her hair, share their rotis, speak to her in Hindi. She  smiled, laughed, and held their babies as they worked. It was not a peaceful getaway, but at least she had met some nice friends.

The marginalized of Delhi did not lack access to nature. They were surrounded by it, and they used it to make their lives a little more bearable. While some of my Delhiwallas complained about urban floods, I saw the urban poor rejoice in them. They collected the water, and smiled as their children bathed in the flood water.

Maybe that was what was so confusing about exploring green  spaces within the city’s confine.  It was not really an utilitarian approach to nature. People were not hacking down trees to build industries. It wasn’t really a dependency either, there were plenty of people sleeping in the  subway tunnels. At the same time people were not writing sonnets about trees and flowers. It all seemed to be a mix for the groups I encountered. Here at Chintan, I was connected to watsepickers. People who collect garbage and live by landfills. From multiple conversations I had with a couple of wastepickers it actually made sense to me. You slept in the park because it was more comfortable than the landfill. In that nature was both beautiful and useful.

Even the wealthier Indians made use of public spaces. I noticed that parks were always full of a mix of people. There were young couples cuddling in obscure places. Women selling freshly cooked corn on the cob. Men playing cricket, Young children chasing stray dogs around. The parks in Delhi reminded me of little communities. No one seemed to mind the trash or the noise. That was Delhi- loud and aggressive. Why should a few trees change that environment?

The poverty bothered her. She read reports from NGOs claiming that rapid urbanization and poor people building informal settlements in Delhi was removing the natural forces to  prevent urban floods for devastating the city. She wondered have they even been in one of these informal settlements? Did they see that people were washing in the river not because they were too cheap to pay for water. Water was a luxury that not everyone had. They had nowhere to go. Guilt flooded her heart. She was one of those westerners. Assuming that homeless people stained the parks back at home. Here in Delhi the marginalized added flavor to outside. Soon she too would be able to ignore the incessant traffic surrounding the park. And like her counterparts in Nizamuddin, when the floods hit she hiked up her dress, and began to use the water to scrub off the dirt from her legs and feet. You have to get clean somehow. 

Okay, so maybe Delhi’s entire impoverished population would not gallantly follow behind me as I led them to a 1400.00 USD, 7 day ski trip. I could let that go. I could even re in vision a nature that was more functional than pristine.

Even if the majority of my Indian friends here had no interest in camping in the hills with me, at least I had convinced some of my new friends to lie in the grass and read during our lunch break.Baby steps

It came suddenly.

She stood there frozen. Tears rushing down her face. She breathed. This is horrible she thought.

She breathed again. Where am I? I made that left like last time, but its dark now and I don’t have a clue where anything is.

She circled the building twice more. Her phone was dead; she would have to get home on her own.

She thought if I asked this man to help me, he might try to take advantage of me. What does a trusting face look like? Maybe I should ask a woman to be sure. But its midnight, and she has yet to see a woman. Usually when travelling at night she reaffirms her safety if she sees women about on the street. Tonight she took a risk, it was her test.

She walked up to a man wearing a beautiful white kurta. She said nervously Hope Project sir? He looked confused. This time more confidently she asked Hope Project, khanna hai, bhai? Where is the Hope Project brother? He smiled amused at her squeaky Hindi. He gracefully pointed and wildly gestured. In a place where street signs do not exist you better just know how to get back or be prepared to ask 40 people where something is. Seeing the look of confusion on her face, he said impatiently said  ”CHALO!” (let’s go) she gave him her most grateful look ever, said a quick prayer to Jesus for her safety, and followed the man in the dark winding streets. Two mins later she was home. She laughed at herself.

This always happens. She always made one small mistake in her walking and ended walking around for twenty minutes when she was never more than a minute off from her destination. She laughed out loud.  Her guide continued walking ignoring her repeated thank you sirs. One of the many things she loved about India was that people really were willing to help. This was the tenth time that she was able to use her soft,  if not sqeaky voice  to persuade her normally busy and aggressive city to slow down and provide a free personal guide home. Maybe she did not always have a sense of direction, but she did have a sense of how to get one…when required.

Scene: An intimate dining room setting. A white table, surrounded by ten chairs. Banana bread filling the air. Hot chai on the table. Everyone sitting and laughing.

Host mother: Teona, how did you like the movie I brought you.

Teona: It was wonderful. I just knew that the boss would get with the girl in the end!

Host mother: Can you believe that guy lied to her like that. I died laughing.

Teona: He really did play her. I knew it was too good to be true!

Host mother: And that Negro on the screen (awkwardly pauses) I mean…

(Awkward pause. All eyes turn to me. Uncomfortable)

Teona: You mean that black guy?

Host mother: (recovers) yes (chuckles) telling her that he is engaged.

Teona: Yes! That was so funny. (changes subject) Is that banana bread ready?

An array of Dinners

Conversations blend together like a smoothie.

Dom looked so good in her saree, she could be model, her skin is so fair, and she is just so pretty. Oh, but don’t worry Suzie you have the perfect figure for a saree too. Expectantly she waits to hear how great she will look in a saree, when it never came she assumed that she just didn’t have the figure.

“I bet you don’t have to shave your arms like me and Tia. You are very fair, so it doesn’t show.”  “Oh, Tia there is this lovely fairness cream that can help with those dark spots. It’s safe for your whole body too!”  “When are you going to get your hair re-braided, it’s looking very rough today!”  ”Oh your hair is soft, I wasn’t expecting that.” “You are such a pretty black girl.”

She internalized it all. Looked into where they wax  arms. After criticizing skin bleaching creams, she could not help but stare at herself in the mirror. Coldly staring at herself. Trying to figure out what exactly is so unattractive about her complexion. Maybe she was getting “too dark”. Maybe she should just try the “fairness enhancers” you know just to clear her skin of the impurities. It has nothing to do with her insecurities she argued in her mind. 

Maybe if she stuck to a strict diet, then she too would have the perfect figure for a saree. Maybe if she bandaged down her booty and chest, she would look good in a salwar kameez too. No need to feel so sensitive, she thought. Her homestay mother always spoke the truth. She was just trying to help. She is so sweet anyway. Stop being so sensitive.

But still…still…still it lingers. She can’t look into a mirror without hearing her host mother’s voice. Today she won’t go outside, give herself a break from the sunlight.

But still…still…still…it lingers.  Her daddy’s words pierce through her self doubt “baby, you have grown to be such a beautiful and strong woman, I am so proud of you!”

She takes another look in the mirror. Have you seen yourself in that dress. GIRL! You look good. Child, if  you put on a saree people will be drooling all over you. All these stairs you climbed have paid off, I think your butt looks fabulous in those jeans! Fat, what fat? You mean those delicious curves that allow to carry the weight of whatever adversity, struggle, or challenge that comes your way. You mean the skin that is smoother than a cup of chai masala on a nice afternoon?  She twirls around in the mirror. Dances around unabashedly in her pajamas.  She smiles, laughs, flips back her “messy” hair and says to her reflection “darling, haters gonna hate!” 

To be honest the following stories, that should appear in different categories, were very personal to me. They seemed more like a personal diary than a blog that anyone could read. So I hesitated. I revised. I hesitated some more. The following collections are a piece of my heart. I hope you like them!

“India is a bundle of contradictions held together by strong but invisible threads.” –Jawaharlal Nehru.

Even with the absence of stars the night was still beautiful. The moon hid shyly behind her dupatta, sneaking peaks when mother Night was not looking. The trees circled the house, ferociously protecting it from the aggressiveness of the city. While you could not escape the loud horns and busy highways of Sarita Vihar, the trees provided a sort of palanquin. Providing space  for some secrecy and privacy behind the veils of nature. Sometimes peacefully or overwhelming loud. She had grown to appreciate the contradictions of the city. It reminded her of being a woman on her own abroad. India indeed was her first country, but already in a month it had taught her so much about her forgotten identity: gender…her womanhood…her femininity???? It was confusing. She could not process it. She walked around feeling suffocated yet it comforted her to be without air. In some of her more anxious moments she also felt the most powerful and in control of her body.

It was the looks that got to her. She was not a stranger to sexual harassment, and did not pretend that back in the States that she was not subject to a set of hoots and hollers and other cat calls. She realized how much she had internalized those thoughts, and thought nothing of them. That’s how it was. She knew “they” were not calling at her or groping her for the sake of an intellectual conversation, but she was also sure that it would never go farther than a butt grab, or a hey “sexy lady.”

Here she did not know why they stared so hard. It was like the men here had x-ray vision, and could see everything underneath her clothes. She felt naked when she left the house. Like no amount of covering could protect her from the stares. She learned to walk quickly with her head down. “Don’t make eye contact,” a friend had warned, “they take that as a sign that you are looking for what they are selling!” “Don’t touch any man,” another friend chided in. “They will think that you are available and interested.”

So her walk had adapted to some sort of tight rope walk. She balanced not making eye contact with not touching ANYONE in a very crowded street. She failed miserably. She wondered why she never got so offended at home, why she never felt so dirty, so weak, and so vulnerable to attack even in new cities. She turned slightly psychotic. She learned to be afraid of every man. By fearing everyone she also feared nothing. She figured if she prepared herself always for attack that there could be no shock in getting attacked. None of her male friends, heck most of her female friends could not understand her paranoia. They scolded her. Some told her to not be so cautious, others warned her that she was too trusting The overall message seemed to be to try harder, you are blessed to travel so shut up and enjoy every moment of it.

She began to think it was all in her head. As if she had created some fantasy world. But this dreamland was not full of milk and honey, it was real. It had blood, sweat, and her tears.

A month later she would adapt. Soon she would meet their gaze with defiance. Stare back so hard that they had no choice but to look away in shame. She would forget that there was a time when the thought of leaving the house created such a huge pain in her chest. She succeeded in trying harder; she shut up and smiled on cue.

She decided that she would not have picked a different city in India for all the gold in the world. She was always on her toes. She was never sure of anything, but she was convinced that she never needed to be. Even during the emotional breakdowns, she knew she was capable of anything. She could pick herself up within minutes. She found beauty where none was readily apparent. “You have to be adaptable if you are going to survive here,” someone once told her. She wanted to tell him that “adaptable” was not a strong enough word. You have to be able to transform yourself in minutes to protect your sanity here, she thought. But that excited her. Her schizo moments gave her the freedom to finally be whoever she wanted to be.

People My dearest La’Shaye keeps harassing me for pictures, so I decided to share  some of my recent pictures from Jaipur as a prelude to my September post. Enjoy!

We were told that here we would find a beautiful elephant sanctuary…needless to say we were hoodwinked.

If only I lived here

Amber Fort…better than the Taj! Or so I hear…

I can’t believe my butt has officially touched an historical staircase.

If one of my readers will donate the money, I will gladly relocate.

 

 

 

 

A peacock fit for the queen

Moving beyond the historical or rather stereotypical connotations of this image, THIS IS NOT AMERICA’S FAVORITE RECIPE!

Say CHEESE!

My favorite flower

This area (whatever it is called) has different objects used to measure, predict, and calculate cool stuff

Jaipur…I found you too late!

Where the Queen of England takes her chai masala

Welcome to Jaipur known worldwide for its exquisite pink architecture

Please stay tuned for my upcoming blog in the next week or so. I hope all my readers take a day or two to document the world from their perspective..if you do please share, I am totally interested!

Praying for your happiness,

Tia (shout out to my parents for giving me a name that only African Americans can pronounce correctly lol)